


Not So Much Coffee and Books as it is Hot Chocolate and Erotica

by knaval



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Stiles, Bookstores, Coffee Shops, Derek Feels, Derek Hale Saves The Day, Derek Has Issues, Derek Saves Stiles, Erotica, Erotica Novelist AU, Fireman!Derek, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Stiles, Hurt!Stiles, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Novelist Stiles, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, POV Derek, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles, Pining, Protective Derek, Smut to come later, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, drunk!Stiles, editor lydia, erotica novelist, erotica novelist!stiles, fireman derek, lots of fluff, suddenly angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaval/pseuds/knaval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative title: The Pen Is</p><p>AU in which Stiles is an erotica novelist, and Derek is the sexy fireman he daydreams about. He sees Derek daily at the coffee shop, writing out his fantasies about Derek, basically Derek is his muse. All goes well until Derek starts talking to him and trying to read his books. Little does Stiles know, Derek is already a fan of his books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Chapter Is More of a Prologue

Since _the fire_ there had been many fires, but in his mind there was only one. As soon as he stepped off the truck and was staring into another burning building, he was just a kid again, but this time he was breaking down the door and running in without a second thought, eyes darting around as he tore children and adults alike from the flames, hurrying them outside and diving back in for more. Only when everyone was saved and the fire was put out, did he stop to look at the refugees’ faces.  Then the shaking realization would play again, reminding that it wasn’t his family he had saved. Then he would stalk back to the station to change and collapse back into bed, where the fire waited from him in his dreams. It was the same every day.

Until Isaac volunteered him for the charity event.

 Normally he could resist Isaac’s puppy eyes (just barely, but still) but Erica and Boyd had a hand in persuading him, well, more of both hands pushing him into Isaac’s car.

“It’s just a charity thing; the department makes us do it every year. And it’s high time you helped with it –Erica just scares people out of it,” Issac explaned quickly, starting the car and pulling out of the parking spot before Derek had even closed the car door.

“Couldn’t you let me shower first—” he tried, hoping to wriggle out of it somehow that way, since he had just gotten off a call. Isaac had barely let him shuck the fire resistant gear he wore over his other clothes, before he had pushed him into the shotgun seat. Issac spared him a glance from the road.

“Nah, man, you look fine. Besides, I’d bet extra cleanup hours that the grit gets them to donate more.”

"Doubt it."

Issac made a vague gesture, pointedly looking at the road instead of Derek.

"Tell you what, I've got a spare tee in the backseat, it's pretty clean. You can wear that if it makes you feel better."

It only occured to Derek halfway through putting on the spare tee, how much smaller Issac was.

Before he could complain once more, Issac made his puppydog eyes again and Derek grudgingly let Isaac drag him door to door, even though Issac insisted he wear the fire helmet, as if the navy tee reading FDBH wasn’t obvious enough.

It was only a day, he decided. A very early starting day nonetheless, but still. He barely took any holidays or sick days, so it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice.

That’s where things started going downhill.

Most of the doors were answered, and he stood dumbly while Isaac began talking a mile a minute, much more than he had ever heard him speak at the station, gently edging his way into their homes with friendly smiles and charismatic words after a second glance at Derek let Isaac get his foot in the door.

On the eighth or ninth door, Isaac told him to try smiling instead of glowering. It had been so long, Derek for a moment believed he had forgotten how to smile in that day at least, if not the last few years. His face sure felt like he had.

The next door slammed in their faces with a scream. Derek stuck to glowering after that.

The next building they visited was part of an apartment complex.

“Erica lives somewhere around here. She says it’s mostly kids just out of college and whatnot,” Isaac was saying as they climbed the stairs. “It’s cheaper here, so a lot of students can just afford it. But the alarm system goes off fairly often because it’s in such poor condition. Erica used to disable it, but the Department made her fix it.”

It had been several hours and they hadn’t covered many doors.   Derek thought they had gone to enough, but Isaac had different plans that included most of the day. In the interest of time, Isaac had them split up, having given the spiel enough times from Derek to get the gist of it. He sent Derek to the top floor, to “work his way down until they met in the middle”.

By the end of the second floor, he was sure he had seen it all.

Nearly every door had been answered, in all states of undress and dress. One guy was wearing an Eskimo suit (really, man?) despite it being barely even autumn. Many other, answered the door in nothing but a towel, and behaved like their meeting was the opening to a porno. One guy answered the door with an obvious hard-on stashed under the elastic of his sweatpants and said porn playing loudly inside. And too many times couples appeared breathless at the door, when clearly he was interrupting something. Too often they awkwardly waited for him to give the whole charity speech, not so subtly groping each other, inspiring him to skip over parts of the speech. Derek was almost grateful for the students grimacing at the light of day clutching Styrofoam cups of ramen for breakfast with the barely rehydrated noodles hanging out of their mouths, opening the door only to snap “no” and close it in his face. One said, “You’re not the Girl Scouts” and as soon as he knew there was no food involved, slammed the door shut. One very short girl stood awkwardly staring at him with a blank expression for minutes after he finished, until he eventually stepped forward and closed the door for her.

He reached the end of the hall, hearing Isaac banging up the stairs – and Derek sighed in relief – it was almost over. He checked his watch; the day was almost over. He had seen too many weird things and met possibly the weirdest people he had in one day alone. All the training for the force had not prepared him for this day, and he was sure all the weirdness in that day so far had prepared him for anything left in that day.

Oh, sweet irony, he was wrong.

Thinking he might omit part of the charity routine, particularly that bit at the end, if only to make the spiel shorter, he raised his hand to knock on the door of apartment 83F. Before he had even touched it, the wood fell away from his hand, door swinging wide open. He barely caught a glance at the person who jumped bounded through the doorway and without so much a look at him, leapt into his arms. Derek caught him mostly out of instinct, back straight and knees sprung shoulder width apart to support the new burden, holding the guy under his knees and supporting his back, perhaps gripping him tighter than he should have. His mind was so thrown off by the sudden weight against him and the fevered arm around his neck and hands clutching his shoulders, he barely registered what the guy was saying, much less what had just happened.

“Wow, you guys sure got here…really…damn….fast,” the guy was saying, his voice dropping to a slow, bashful hush as Derek turned to face him, only then realizing the proximity of the guy’s face to his, as it slid into a slack expression, eyes wide and eyebrows high in surprised, mouth ajar.

He opened his mouth to ask what the guy meant, ( _not_ to stare mutely into those tawny eyes) just as the fire alarm went off inside the apartment, loud and keening. It was followed by a thin cloud of smoke. Isaac appeared at the top of the stairs, a grin and a curious look on his face that Derek didn’t want to deal with at the moment.

“Stay here,” he growled, unceremoniously dropping the guy and marched inside as the idiot stumbled to his feet in the hall.

The fire wasn’t even a fire. Derek only ever got called in for building-crumbling infernos- the smallest job he got involved enough flames to do some decent damage. The smoke was barely even there, it was a wonder how the smoke alarm had managed to detect it.

If it wasn’t for the slight blue the smoke reflected against the light bulbs, he might have thought it was merely a cloud of steam.

He reached the kitchen, where the smoke wafted out through the oven door – something inside was burning, a smoldering stack of papers that apparently fallen into the oven. Fallen, apparently, because there were some papers still precariously placed above the door and some slipped onto the floor. The majority of the paper had fallen inside. What, had the weirdo seen smoke and bolted?

“What a fucking moron,” Derek muttered among other words to himself, snatching up the dishtowel and taking the burned papers out, tossing it in the sink and hitting the cold tap just in case. The stack of papers -the majority of which seemed handwritten, was largely unsalvagable.

He was standing on a chair to reset the fire alarm just as Isaac came in, leading the moron behind him.

“You sure you don’t want to wait for backup?” Isaac grinned toothily at Derek. He shot a glare at the resident moron, who stood sheepishly behind Isaac. 

“Don't bother, there wasn’t even a fire,” Derek snapped as he stepped down from the chair, before he even realized Isaac was joking.

“That’s too bad,” Isaac shrugged, a conspiratorial grin sneaking up a corner of his mouth. “I promised him a ride in the fire truck down to the station.”

The moron’s eyes lit up at excitedly at the mention, but dimmed when Derek glared at him again. With a huff, Derek started towards the door.

“Well, he can wait for that by himself. We’re leaving,” he stomped out of the apartment, leaving them inside, Isaac calling after him to finish the charity speech, but thankfully the guy inside declined.

“And open your window so the alarm doesn’t go off again,” Derek snarled over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a door to door sales-person (girl scout) and can verify yes all this shit happens when you go door to door.


	2. Chapter 2

The manuscript burning had been the first worst thing to happen to him that morning. He barely registered the hot fireman’s blatant disapproval of his fire safety methods, still dazed by said fireman’s strong arms that had held him so easily. The fact that his latest manuscript had been burned to a crisp with the exception of a few pages hadn’t sunk in until a few hours later.

"Laura!" Stiles called as he burst into the shop, plopping down on the counter. The wind chimes on the door were kicked from their tinkling melody into a crash of chaos and too many high notes too early in the morning. Everything that morning had happened too early. The sound of the wind chimes slowly danced back into place, often missing each other gracefully in wide sweeps that matched his heavy breaths. Burying his forehead into the countertop, he closed his eyes briefly and tried not to focus on the growing stitch in his side.

"I think I'll need a double today. With whipped cream and sprinkles." His chin resting on the counter, he rubbed his eyes until he was seeing spots. It was so cold out he was sure his eyes were beginning to freeze between blinks. At least it was warm and comfortable in the sweet escape the Hale and Hearty.

All year round it sported a tarnished sign, advertising about eight different types of homemade hot cocoa, and those are the year round standards. Early in February when Winter finally showed up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks, the first _really_ cold day arrived, announcing the overdue reign of winter, the cold air bit his fingers and flurries in his hair nagged him, reprimanding him for not wearing something heavier. He was a bit early for his meeting with his editor for once, so he decided he could spare a moment for anything hot. He was chased across the ashy street by the cold, a monster made visible by the shear amount of car exhaust and steam in the air, gnawing at his ankles where he forgot to wear thicker socks.

When he opened his eyes there was a wolf, and there was Laura.

He fell out of his seat screaming. Although he wouldn't have described it that way. It was more of high pitched shout-, ok, no, it was definiately screaming.

"Quit whining, it's taxidermied," Laura snapped at him, moving the wolf, positioned in an eternal growl, to a different part of the counter.

"Right, alright," he muttered weakly, pulling himself upright again. Now that he was up and looking around, he realized the shop was filled obsessively with wolf paraphernalia, --stuffed animals, clocks, themed furniture, and wood carvings. It reminded him a little of the witch from Brave, not that he’s admitting to seeing or crying during that movie, only admitting to finding similarities that in how the witch had decorated her entire hut with bear-themed everything, only here it was wolf-themed.

"Did you redecorate? Or did you recently invade Winterfell? It looks like you slayed the Starks and rounded up all the direwolves," he joked, sweeping his eyes slowly over the furniture.

 "You know nothing, John Snow," she retorted across the counter, scrunching up her nose to avoid a grin. She loved those books, and practically growled whenever a customer tried to eat or drink while browsing the small _Game of Thrones_ section. He didn’t doubt the possibility that she had bought all the wolf decor off Ebay in an attempt to create her own personal House Stark.

"Something along those lines. I just got the stuff out of storage," Laura replied, cleaning off the counter with a dishtowel, "I've been meaning to for years."

"Well good job; I'm sure it's not going to scare off any customers. Speaking of, coffee _pleeeeeease_?"

She swatted him with the dishtowel. "This isn’t a coffee shop, Stiles. It's a bookstore."

"Well, then the coffee grinds and pastry display are awfully suspicious," he said, gesturing to the glass case of mouth watering confectionaries. She had all sorts of pies, tarts, brownies and probably everything needed for a diabetic coma. He managed to reach over the counter to snag one of said pastries without her smacking his hand away.

“So what happened? I thought you were doing some sort of caffeine cleanse,” Laura said, finding him a mug and pouring him

“Ugh, everything.”

“That’s a bit much for this early in the day,” she commented, and waited for him to elaborate.

"I wrote all of last night to get my new chapters done but then my breakfast attempt caught fire and then there was this extremely frightening and grumpy and sexy fireman making me feel like shit which is really weird to be turned on and self-hating at the same time and in short my manuscript and toast were burned and my meeting with Lydia is in a half hour.”

With that he put his head down on the counter again.

“Was that this morning or a dream?”

“Uurhhhhhhhhh it feels like a nightmare,” he groaned.

“Oh, and speaking of your writing,” she said, tapping on his coffee mug, “No more free coffee until you bring more books in.”

He groaned. “Laura, how could you do this to me? Literally the worst possible time to do this to me.”

“You know the deal, Stilinski. No books, no coffee. I’ve been waiting for that new novel of yours for ages.”

“So have I,” he muttered into the counter. 

She left him to browse the shop as she went into the backroom, leaving him to nurse his last free cup of coffee.

The overnight rearrangement had thrown him off kilter, and he instantly sought out his favorite details of the shop out from underneath the thorough coating of wolf themed gear.

Wooden beams suspended the low ceiling, wolves artistically carved into the edges and wolf paraphernalia stuffed strategically into the most unexpected of spaces to scare customers. Sweet messages are scrawled on the walls in everything from crayon to paint and –was that jelly or blood? Stiles shuddered, clutching his laptop closer to his chest and focusing on the colored pencil recommendations written on the bar counter. He used those recommendations more than the actual menu. Come to think of it, was there even a menu? The chalkboard behind the pastry counter was filled with bad puns and book prices.

There was one next to the graffitied menu in ball-point black ink that he hadn't noticed before, in horribly concise and neat handwriting, recommending the Chocolate Triskelion Special. Stiles made note to order that the next time he came in hungry. The smell of smoke from his apartment has left him feeling a little nauseous, and a little more shaken up.

Laura slid back out of the back room in her socks very quickly without coffee for either of them. Going by the twitchy, plotting look on her face Stiles thought breifly that she might have drank all the coffee in the backroom.

"Here's an idea to cheer you up," she began, which by "cheer you up" she probably meant "exploit your work and make me money".  Looking much too excited for herself, at any time of the day, she continued, "Valentines' is next week, and since you write smutty romance novels-"

"-Harlequin romances-" he interjected.

She waved his interruption off without acknowledgement. "-Smutty romance novels. We could have an event promoting your books in my shop. Book signing, meet-n-greet kind of deal. Half off pastries, specialty teas and hot chocolates, --ooh, maybe we could-"

“Why would they come in and buy books on Valentines.” It wasn’t so much a question as a half-assed attempt to dissuade her suggestion.

 _"_ Be _cause_ , " she said, rolling over the word with a terrifyingly happy gleam in her eyes that happened when she revealed to children that Santa wasn't real, "These people are wandering into my bookstore because they are lonely and dateless and mourning their lack of romance, what better way to nurse that pain than to get lost in the fictional romances of a perfect, imaginary couple?"

"What, masturbation of the romantic sense?"

She shrugged. "Well, they are Harlequin novels. There's a reason I don't rent those out anymore. They’re buy-only."

"Yikes."

"Yeah, the pages used to get stuck together. Worse than when they return them with pages missing."

“So lonely dateless people getting their pseudo porn novels signed by the equally lonely and horny novelist.”

“Because what would be better on Valentines day?”

“Well a candlelit dinner and roses, for starters,” he muttered, thinking of how he had tried to convince

“The perfect Lydia still refusing? Well, I gotta give it to her for keeping things professional,” Laura shrugged. Stiles and Lydia had sorta dated. They had gone out a few times before he switched publishers, and Lydia became his new editor. Since the switch, their relationship had been in a weird not quite on but definitely off again situation.

“I think it has more to do with her having edited my books. I can't count the times she's called me telling me to rewrite a scene because ‘that isn't physically possible and/or realistic’,” he said. He sighed and lay his head down on the counter, _again_.

She patted his sunken shoulders. “Hey, I'll buy you a burger afterwards and we'll call it even for all the embarrassment I’ve caused you, alright?”

“Really?” He looked up from the counter.

“Pssh, nope. I've got a date that night.”

He dropped his head back onto the counter, moaning. Finally he conceded. “Ugh. Fine. If I say yes will you let me have coffee?”

“You can go make it yourself,” she said, picking up a stack of books and going to reshelf them.”

He quickly got up and downed the rest of his mug, slipping behind the counter. As he poured himself a cup of hot chocolate instead, a thought struck him. “Do I still have to pay?”

“What the hell do you think, Stilinski,” her answer came from the stacks. He shrugged to himself and searched for the whipped cream and cinnamon.

In one end of the shop, there was a hearth not yet lit but supplied with tinder ready for a fire, then surrounding it, many comfortable-looking chairs over a nearly fraying rug that had probably been curled up on many times before, its faded design picked at along the edges, and one corner curling upwards from being stepped on wrong too many times.  Blankets that were worn and been through the dryer often and pillows fluffed often and beaten into new shapes were left imprinted on the chairs, still bearing the shape of whoever last sat in them. One embroidered pillow was coming apart. One particular arm on a chair, the perfect crook for leaning a book and a mug of hot chocolate on had many stains on the edge of it. He smiled a moment, imagining the happy memories of someone spending all their evening with a hot drink propped up just there, and a world of well-read literature.

"You got one of those three-wolves-and-a-moon teeshirts somewhere in here? Oh, there it is," he said, noticing one of the large wolf stuffed animals wearing said tshirt.  “Nevermind.”

Laura grunted something in reply.

There were pictures from the 90’s and a variety of yellowing business cards pinned into the woodwork wherever someone could reach, but most of the beams were partially converted into bookshelves, suspending an armful on novels on a peg to offer their crudely stacked titles to any that passed underway. Beyond that, bookshelves stuffed with every genre and shape of book lined the walls, heavily unorganized.

Hot chocolate acquired, he made his way back to the cozy corner, pausing the well loved chair with the one arm stained heavily in chocolate, considering it.  it was in the corner where the ceiling was at its lowest and further from the fireplace. The chairs around it were by no means newer, but evidently less used, as if whoever had made this seat their habitat sat alone and away from everyone else.  The romantic in him sympathized with the lone soul that routinely rested in the chair, and the writer in him was already spinning absent minded stories about the chair’s most often occupant. Shaking his head, he forced himself to think about his meeting with his editor. Eventually he sat opposite the chair, pulling one of the less-worn up to it, a yellow armchair with an embroidered pillow smushed in between its cushions, and made himself comfortable there. He propped his feet up on the corner of the red chair, just below the stains, until Laura came over with the sole intention of kicking his feet down.

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, um. Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to disrespect your furniture.”  Only now was it occurring to him that the chair might have been hers, and she growled at the customers to keep their distance from her when she wasn’t working.

She rolled her eyes, plopping down in a green winged back chair directly in front of the hearth, cradling a squat mug of coffee in her hands. “Nothing like that. That’s my brother’s chair, and he doesn’t like anyone touching his chair. It’s obsessive how he knows when someone does that.” She nudged him out of the yellow chair with her foot. “Also, who gave you carpet privileges? Go find a table.”

Grudgingly, he brought his hot chocolate to a small table for two which in reality was more of a table for one, situating himself there. From that particular table, although the chair wasn’t nearly as comfortable or sleep inducing as the last one, he had a clear view of the red chair.

“So, uh, what’ll get me carpet privileges?”

She gave him a pointed stare, as if measuring his worth there, scrunching her nose up in scrutiny. “When you show me you can have a hot drink without spilling it.” As if on cue, he nearly knocked his hot cocoa over, a wave of chocolate spilling over the side and onto its little plate, soaking the croissant.  She said nothing, but took a sip of her own drink without breaking her stare, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow, silently condemning him to never drink over the carpet. He made an effort to stare only at the table before him.

It was by the window, and after a few cautious glances at Laura, he moved some of the clutter on the sill back to set up his laptop and the odds and ends from his bag. She didn’t seem to mind. Now that she had snapped at him, he was wondering if she was a bit hungover.

“What about that chair, with all the spills on the corner?” he asked a bit nervously, wondering if she was considering revoking his speaking privileges. Could she do that? She could probably do that.

“Because it’s not _my_ chair,” she explained over another sip, as she positioned a magazine before her. “I bought all the other furniture with this place, but my idiot brother insisted on bringing his own chair. I don’t care what he does to the chair as long as the carpet doesn’t get messy. ”

True to her story, the red chair stood apart in design from the rest of the furniture. And the carpet under it was spotless.

\- - - - - - - - 

Eventually he brought over a box of his old books. They were old and falling apart at the seams, the corners folded down. He never gave any of his books to Laura in this condition, they were always straight off the press. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Whenever his books were published he received a box of them. He gave most of them to Laura, and kept only a handful that he used for reference.  She was still in the back, so he sent her a quick text and dropped the box off by the red chair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's very short, sorry!! but yeah, this is where Derek starts reading Stiles' writing

It's the better part of the day when he finally sinks into his comfy red chair with a coffee sweeter than he'll admit to anyone, and can finally gaze out over the shop from his little corner. The other customers keep a bit of a distance from him, wary of his glares that broadcast that he is not to be disturbed. 

He's still wearing the t-shirt, (the one that Laura shrunk in the wash/having never given it back to issac) covered with soot and soaked with sweat that hugs his arms and waist a little too snugly,  slipping down into the comfort of the well worn chair. Laura of course came over, snapping at a few customers to not bend the spines of her books back so much before she came to him, sighing about her busy day and useless boyfriend. She mentioned something about a bunch of their mother’s recipes she had recently found in her attic, before dropping a box of book next to him. She plopped down in her green chair with an exasperated sigh after she scared a customer out of it with a growl. He smiled at that, waving sardonically as the customer scurried away, quite put out. His dog padded her way over, nails clicking on the wood paneling to curl up at his feet. She snuffled her nose into his hands as Laura began a long tirade about heating milk properly for chocolate and her day so far. Apparently whoever worked there during lunch had disagreed with her about the milk and she had to fire him for his stubborn incompetence, but without the help she was busier than ever. She hinted a few times that she would need him to drop by and help out a few times until she found a suitable replacement. He pretended he didn’t hear.

After a gulp of her own drink, she change topic. “My favorite local author came in here earlier, I convinced him to donate more books and maybe do a book signing." She grinned conspiratorially into her drink, obviously pleased with whatever she had said to get the poor sap to donate.

"Only because you're too cheap to go out and buy more on your own," he said, and Alpha yipped in something that sounded like agreement.

She ignored that, continuing, "Anyway, he dropped them off around noon. Cute fella. You might have liked him. But I think he had a date or something because he left in a hurry saying something about a girl."

Derek frowned. He never understood why she did that, kindling an interest for all of a second and then quickly dashing out any hope of it.

“Are those them there?" he asked, pointing to the box. 

"Yeah. He had a bunch. Apparently they're all the same genre, and mad easy to write."

“What are they about?’ he asked idly, quickly losing interest in the topic. He scratched at Alpha’s ears. She yawned contentedly.

Laura frowned, shrugging it off with another sip. “He didn't say, and I haven't had much of a chance to look at them yet.” Being Laura, and not much of a reader for anything that wasn’t Harry Potter, she would never get around to looking at them.

She left him as another customer started a complaining loudly about the pastry, which, while not the highlight of the shop, were still not to be insulted. He resigned his attention to the box of books, knowing the customer was either going to be thrown out into the snow or guilted into buying more pastries. He dipped a hand into the box, pulling up one of the paperback novels.

It was obviously a much older copy, with its front and back covers haphazardly ripped off. The slim spine and browning paper made him think of air port novels and short murder mysteries and thrilling action sagas, or cheesy sci-fi adventures. Probably one of those.

With no summary on the front or back, he flipped to the middle of the book with the hope in mind that if he read a few paragraphs he would get the gist of what it was about. He looked for a paragraph break and started there as he thumbed the cured and fraying corners.

_"-He parted his flushed lips, licking them tantalizingly. Looking up at him through his long fluttering lashes and half lidded, lust-blown eyes, he took the tip of the man's throbbing length into his searing hot mouth, licking stripes along the sides and cupping his balls he dared to swipe a finger over his puckered-"_

There Derek promptly knocked over his drink in a flurry to hide either his reddening face or the book or both. Laura cast him a sharp look, as if to say _how dare he_ , right as she was in the middle of throwing a customer out. He made a few fumbled motions to let her know he was going to clean the spill up right away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is my headcannon that stiles would write erotica very badly


	4. Chapter 4

It all started the day he had been thrown out of his publisher’s office, (that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but give him credit he’s a writer, he tends to embellish upon the truth, it’s part of the job) Lydia yelling at him that his latest chapters were lacking in “verisimilitude”, whatever the fuck that meant. Truthfully he hadn’t been entirely listening because he was trying to prevent himself from falling back in obsession with her strawberry-blonde locks twisting in and out of her lithe fingers and cherry painted fingernails, while she was telling him she didn’t like his most recent character, that stripper-cop/fireman was too cliché a trope for him to use, especially since his last three series featured several characters of that variety. And as profitable and acceptable as that was for erotic novels, and as much as his avid readers fed off of it (well, more like got off on it), Lydia wasn’t having any more of that. She was blatantly refusing to publish anything more of his until he found something new and unique, and managed to make it sexy.

He couldn’t say she didn’t push him to new limits. Well, actually, if she did, he might not have been stuck writing cheap erotic novels that he saw everywhere from Kmart and newspaper/magazine stands to the back of airport bookstores. It wasn’t quite his idea of what success was going to be like when he first started writing, but he had grown comfortable.

As comfortable as seeing his (thankfully fake) name plastered tackily on books little old ladies across the bus from him peeked at him over could make him. So when Lydia gave him another one of her “helpful” nudges, it sent him running into her office early on a Saturday.

“WHAT DID YOU DO.”

Stiles burst into Lydia’s office. He stopped, panting in her doorway. She looked lazily up at him, leaning her head against her perfectly manicured fingernails, batting her eyes at him doely. It was nearly enough for him to forgive her on the spot and apologize for yelling in her office.

“It’s encouragement,” she said sweetly, taking her morning coffee from him, (since he was in the habit of bringing it to her every day, despite not having a reason to see his publisher everyday). “I’ll take your picture down from the site once you start giving me decent chapters. Until then I expect you to thank me for using the most flattering picture I had of you. Though it was an older one and you were still doing that weird,” she shuddered in place of a word, “withyour hair.”

_Ok, first of all, no one had objected to it at the time, and second, everyone said they liked it better than when he just buzzed it._

“No one’s supposed to know what I look like, so no one can link me to this job,” he moaned into the wall, before slipping out into the hall. His dad had no idea this was his job, he thought he was still teaching poetry at the community college. What if someone he knew read his work? Oh and this was going to kill any and all chances he had of getting laid. Laura, Lydia, and basically all five people that had read what he wrote for a living  had made it pretty clear they would never consider sleeping with, much less dating him. He was going to die alone.

“Please Lydia, I have a pseudonym for a reason, I promise you’ll have those pages in a month, no, two weeks-”

“ _Stiles_.”

He stopped begging as she took off her glasses. He knew for a fact she only wore them so people would take her seriously, and so she could take them off in a disappointed manner at people. She folded her hands on her desk very professionally and looked at him closely.

“Look. What does it say on my door?”

He squinted at her for a moment. Turning around, he said, “The door-?”

“ _My_ office door, yes. What does it day?”

“It says ‘Chief Editor of Martin Publishing-” he started to read, adjusting his own glasses and leaning closer to look at the smaller lettering on her door.

“Yeah. And tell me, Stiles, what does it say on your door?” She said as he turned around to look at her.

His brows furrowed. “But I don’t have a-”

“ _Exactly._ ”

With that she gave him a little smile. “No go write those chapters. I’ll read them as soon as you bring them in, and we’ll have that picture down in no time.”

Lydia’s word was law in her office, and many other places. Every intention of arguing with her had fled, because he knew well enough from arguing with her over syntax and other novel related things, well, that there really was no arguing with her.

And that was how he ended up visiting Danny, an old friend from high school and occasional computer hacker. He probably could have gone to someone else for a job like this, but Danny already knew about his books, and he didn’t want to have to explain the site to yet another person. Besides, Danny was the one who set up the website for him, albeit at Lydia’s insistence.

“Please, please, _please_ , Danny, I need you to do this. Some old lady at the supermarket recognized me and asked for a signed book! And the picture’s only been up for a day! I can’t have random-ass people knowing I write porn for a living!”

“What about just random-ass people you just write porn in general? Like, they don’t need to know you make money off of it,” Danny suggested as he leaned back in his chair, a shit eating grin on his face. “But yeah, that sounds like shit, man.”

“So we're on the same page then?”

“Not remotely. But go on,” Danny shrugged, typing away like he was barely listening anyway.

“Why won’t you do it? This is so much worse than you know. Every single person who has ever considered dating me

“Maybe if you didn’t write such bad shit to begin with. But you never know. There are a ton of kinky fuckers out there, you’ll definitely find someone special.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, someone who won’t press charges,” Danny smirked, and Stiles groaned again. He opened his mouth to plead some more, but Danny cut him off, giving in.

“Fine, I’ll write something that blocks the website, maybe give it a malware warning so people don’t go on it. But you’re writing me a book, for this favor,” Danny called over his shoulder. “Plus work fees. And I don’t want Lydia coming after me for doing you a favor.”

“Done and done,” he said, making no intention whatsoever to actually do that. He’d dedicate the next book to Danny, maybe. But the website was down, and hopefully no one else would see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO GIMME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER
> 
> OR A PROMPT FOR A FIC
> 
> OR JUST FEEDBACK Y'KNOW
> 
> BECAUSE I LOVE FEEDBACK


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IM AWARE THAT THE TENSE CHANGES I WAS TOO TIRED TO CHANGE IT SO APPRECIATE PPL FIVE UPDATES IN ONE DAY

Derek never believed in love at first sight. So he stared long and hard. A few times. He dallied a moment, feeling like the creepiest brand of stalker, before he right-clicked the picture and sent it to his printer. It felt a little weird and wrong, but that was easily brushed aside when he stared at it again. It was definitely _him_.

After reading through all the books by that author at Laura’s shop, he had quietly searched the local library, and maybe more bookstores than he cared to admit. It occurred to him a little later than it should have that he could just check online for what books he was missing, and order them online. He didn’t like the idea of the books just sitting at his door in a box, where anyone (particularly his sister or someone he knew) could pick up the box and see what he was reading. He had been making a particular effort to hide the books under others and other ways to hide what exactly he was reading. It didn’t help that most of the covers were fairly telling, and there were no versions of the cover where the illustration was any less scarring. He felt dirty just looking at them sometimes.

It turned out there was a whole webpage for the author. It was of a minimal design, looking like it had been made in 2002 and barely updated since. Most of it was dedicated to discussing the books, with a section only filled with comments and complaints for the books. There were a few suggestions that had been responded to with a redirection to the “email the author” link. There was a small author bio on the side of the page. The day before it was only a small block of text.

Today there was a picture.

It was obviously candid; the guy was barely looking at the camera, and a few faces in the background had been blurred out. It’s a little odd, seeing the face of the guy that wrote all the books he had read so avidly, flipping back through to spend more time drifting over the passages that made his heart beat a little faster, rereading parts he hadn’t thought that he would like, such as the bits where it made him cry. He hadn’t expected so much from an erotica novel, and hadn’t thought that he would become so emotionally invested in the characters.

Or the author.

Every time he looked back at the screen, he felt like he had to hide or avert his eyes, as if the picture might suddenly look up at him and catch him staring, pouring over each mole, the color of his eyes and the long eyelashes they’re gazing up from under. There’s just one thing that unnerves him. He’s met this guy before.

It’s the guy from the fire, the one he rescued just a day or two earlier, he’s sure of it. Later that evening when he returns to the fire station, he looks up the report. He swears to himself it’s not stalker-ish at all.

Stiles Stilinski. He’s glad only briefly that Mike Hawk is only a pen name (as he suspected/hoped), but the name does still strike him as a little odd.

The report reads that a stack of paper had caught fire when he left it in the kitchen over the stove. It was all handwritten, nothing typed. It was probably the latest manuscript, Derek realizes with a sinking feeling, and that was probably why the website had said the newest book was going to be delayed. Judging by the comments on the author’s bio, it was unlikely he would try to rewrite it. Apparently he waited for a bound of inspiration and wrote from that until it was depleted. It was probable that there would be no new book for ages, until he found a new source of inspiration, unwilling to rewrite the other.

He finds himself grinning at the things the characters say and do, and it makes him feel somewhat like an idiot but mostly it just makes him feel light and warm and fuzzy and a million other things that all feel like being covered in several puppies that are still learning to walk and howl, barking more like a squeak, their wobbly legs barely carrying them as they sniff and lick and nuzzle all that they can touch.  He may be remembering an actual event, but he can’t remember the last time reading a book made him feel like that. He reads the page over again and then he needs to put it down and smile into his pillow and maybe roll over a few times before he can read any more. It’s ridiculous, but there’s no one there to see him act like an idiot.

And then he gets to the next chapter, and there’s this sense of _finally_ that just breaks over the book. There was just exposition and meeting and things in the book have just been building and building and now neither he nor the characters can stand the tension much longer, and one just breaks down and shouts a confession at the other like an accusation. A few more words are exchanged and Derek actually bites his lips when the two finally kiss. It’s extremely ridiculous.

Boyd’s footsteps are in the hall, coming towards the door. In a fit of uncertainty and desperation, Derek throws the book into his locker a little ways away from him and hides it under everything else under it. He pulls out the Sudoku book and pencil, falling back onto his bed, pretending to be engrossed in the numbers when he can only replay in his mind exactly _how_ the characters finally got together.

He only forgets to wipe the stupid grin off his face. Boyd says nothing when he comes in, only raises an eyebrow and goes to his locker.

After a week the email link is looking more and more attractive. He makes a particular point to not move his mouse anywhere near it, nor look directly at it for the first few days. Once or twice he accidentally mis-clicks it, and panics briefly before he realizes no damage is done.

It’s when he’s reading one of his favorites of the series over dinner that he finally gets up to doing it.

“It couldn’t hurt to try,” a character which he somewhat (okay, completely) identifies with says, and though it’s in a completely different context and situation from his, the words immediately summon the notion he’s been revisiting for weeks.

He puts the book down immediately and goes to his computer. Notably, it’s a very old computer that was probably built the same year that dumb website was made. When it finally boots up, he’s finished his dinner and moved into the kitchen, keeping himself busy with baking Laura’s new recipes. His fingers are smudged with flour but he doesn’t care when he’s drafting out the email in a word document. It starts as a quick word of admiration for the books, but it spirals into pages long explanation for why he loves each character and praises for the style. Before he can stop himself he’s writing about how he first picked up the books. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it wasn't mentioned yet, derek has read all stiles' naughty books by now, and is utterly in love with him


	6. LOOK ITS AN UPDATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if different firetrucks have different teams im making all this shit up I don’t even know what a strawberry Danish is  
> And I forgot he already knew stiles name I think ugh  
> Tense changes and continuity errors, maybe that won’t be visible with the shininess of an update

Derek had been on edge the past few weeks.

Of course, according to Laura, he had always been on edge, but of late he was surlier and broodier and grouchier than usual.

The cause? Well, his favorite author had not emailed him back for several weeks.

Which really shouldn’t have been a problem. He was probably busy writing his next novel, and if that was the case, Derek didn’t want to disturb him. Ok, total lie. He wanted the author to write him back just as much as he wanted the next installment.

So for a few weeks he was, as Laura put it, ‘a total sourpuss’ until one fateful morning.

It was his turn to grab coffee for the rest of firetruck 5’s team, which was the usual hectic business: Boyd yelling their coffee preferences after him as if he didn’t know them by heart, Issac asking if he could grab him a strawberry Danish too as Derek told him for the tenth time Laura’s shop didn’t make strawberry anything because she was allergic, and Erica, from the firetruck parked _right outside_ the shop like they were actually allowed to take the truck joyriding and weren’t violating a whole chapter in the fireman rulebook, (“Those are just guidelines, Derek,” Erica had said while Boyd and Issac nodded.) shouting that if he didn’t hurry up she was going to use the sirens and loudspeaker. She had already done that once to change her order, instead of calling him or following him into the shop like a _normal person_.

Then all of it suddenly stopped for a moment, when he reached the doorway to the shop. The door opened and the author came tumbling out, bumping into him with a quick “Sorry dude.” Derek stopped cold in his tracks, and for a moment he couldn’t move. The author perhaps frequented the shop, he thought, as he looked up enough to see Laura looking at him funny before shrugging and going back to her latte art. Other customers shuffling awkwardly by him to get through the doorway, Erica honking the firetruck’s horn, Derek wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking as he stepped slowly into the shop.

 “Maybe, uh,” Derek cleared his throat and searched for the right words, not making direct eye contact with Laura. “Maybe I could come help out, some mornings, y’know?” he said, as another awkward customer squeezed passed him in the doorway.

Laura looked at him like he was crazy, but said nothing. She wasn’t about to turn down free labor, especially not from her brother. The chance to bug him more often was not one she would easily pass up.

“You’ll be working the pastry counter. And no scaring customers off,” she said, and Erica outside turned on the sirens.

So Derek works the pastry counter, but more than often because the hours he comes in at are devoid of customers, he sits at the counter because that’s what he’s used to, silently trying not to freak out when his favorite author comes in and sits two stools away from him at the very same counter. And hell if he doesn’t get a little stalkerish _. I’m shy, okay?_ He tells the judge-y feeling in the back of his mind that sounds oddly like Laura.

Stiles never shuffled out of bed earlier than noon on the weekends, his hair comically spiked and dented by his pillow and odd sleeping habits. It drove Derek crazy. He wondered (more of hoped) that Stiles was the sort who couldn’t stay still while sleeping unless they were curled up all the way against the wall, otherwise burrowing under pillows and blankets seeking any source of heat. He may have fantasized Stiles trying to curl up under him in the middle of the night when the heater shut off and the frosty air crept in through the cracks, tucking himself under Derek’s chin to bore his cold nose in his chest.

On early weekday mornings Stiles sat at the bar counter, where behind Laura busied around and mainly disappeared into the back rooms. He was only there a half hour or so before he left, presumably for work. He sat with a mostly ignored coffee and tart, furiously typing before he dashed off, emptying whatever change was in his pockets into the tip jar. Sometimes he left his hat or some pages, dashing back in for them seconds later. The first time that had happened, Derek thought to take the pages and run after him with them, picturing their introduction to be something rather like the paperback romances Derek read before becoming a fan of Stiles’ work. Before he could reach for the papers though, Stiles burst back in the doors with a flurry of wind and snow at his feet, snatching them up with the tart hanging from his teeth. Their eyes had locked for one embarrassing second before Stiles was gone again.

Every weekday Derek made the habit of sitting at the counter, a few seats from where Stiles usually sat, with the hopes that one day he might gather the courage to strike up a conversation.  However, no matter what, he never could. Try as he might, to think up of ice-breakers and conversation starters the day before, he never liked any of them the day he went to use them. A mutual silence had grown over the two, sitting at the bar, aware of each other’s presence (if Stiles could tell he was there behind the laptop, that is), never saying a word.

A few times, without looking up from the screen, one of Stiles’ hands would grope for the coffeepot on the counter, his eyes glued to the monitor, barely any attention spared to the slow pursuit of getting a coffee refill. The few times this had happened, Derek pushed the coffeepot towards him until his hand found purchase, and Stiles would cast a vague, appreciative gesture his way.

Stiles was fairly quiet in the bookstore, chatting mildly with Laura and a few of the other customers, but nothing Derek could join in easily on or remark on one day to “coincidentally” find they had in common. It wasn’t as if his books suggested anything that he personally liked – other than possible kinks, but Derek really didn’t want their first real conversation to be as absurd as that.

Stiles didn’t even look up from his laptop, only pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. Derek looked up immediately at the sound of his voice, as he often did. Usually he disguised it as a sudden urge to talk to Laura, but lately she was getting suspicious of how often he spoke to her.

“What’s the past tense of flee?” Stiles asked him lazily across the bar counter, leaning over the corner towards him, swaying dangerously  from a severe lack of caffeine in his system. It took Derek a moment to realize the question was directed at _him_.

“Oh. Um, uh…” Derek stuttered intelligently, instantly hating himself for every syllable and every passing second.

“Is it ‘fleed’?” Stiles asked more to himself, absentmindedly returning to his own little world that Derek couldn’t seem to get into. “No, it’s more like…”

“Fled?” Derek suggested the moment the word occurred to him, and Stiles snapped his fingers, pointing at Derek as if he had triggered some epiphany by speaking.

“Bingo. Thanks,” Stiles said before returning to his typing, mashing the backspace button a few times. Derek was slowly becoming acquainted and charmed with the noises of Stiles’ keyboard. The backspace was coming loose, often rattling. The spacebar actually fell off a few times, and most of the homerow keys were stiff, and prone to getting stuck. Stiles often pressed those keys more deliberately than the rest.

Derek sat a moment longer, waiting awkwardly with his coffee before he realized the conversation had ended as quickly as it had started.  He stammered cleverly a moment or two longer, before forcing himself to ask, “So, um, what’re you typing?”

Stiles made a vague gesture, pushing his glasses up again. Derek could see the reflection of a Word document in them. He tried not to crane forward to make out the words. “Uh, I’m writing.”

"I can _see_ that," Derek tried with something resembling a smile. Apparently real-life conversations had gotten harder since he last tried them.

Stiles jolted upward in his seat at Derek's remark, glancing around and repositioning his laptop. "You can?" he whispered quickly, his voice an octave higher than it had been seconds ago.

"Uh, no. Not literally, but um, typing and writing are somewhat synonmous."

"Oh. right. Gotcha." Stiles readjusted his glasses, settling back into the rhythm of typing.

Derek nodded, mostly to himself. Somehow Stiles was never that concise in his books. “So, um, what sort of writing?” he pried, desperately groping for something to continue the conversation.

“Oh, you know,” Stiles shrugged.

 _Yeah, I probably do._ At least that time he made sure not to say it outloud.

“It’s ah, um, a novel. I write, uh, I’m a writer,” Stiles managed, tearing himself away from his work. He rested his head on his elbow, leaning across the corner towards Derek again. “Published and everything, you know.”

A toothy grin was tugging at one side of Derek’s mouth, and he attempted to hide it behind his coffee mug. He couldn’t help finding the situation funny; Erotica novelist by night and semi-hiding it by day. It was adorable. “Anything that I might have read?”

Stiles looked all around the shop, as if he might find a better answer what he had. “Uh. Maybe. You never know,” he said, as he made another wide, vague gesture, tucking his other arm back against himself, generally avoiding eye contact. He squirmed under the scrutiny of the light conversation, and quickly reached for a different tangent before Derek could ask another question about his writing.

“So um, you come here often,” Stiles said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Derek nodded, leaning back in his seat. It was only when Stiles looked away did he realize he had been staring. Every start to the conversation kept running into a dead end. Maybe it was the way Stiles wrote in long meandering paragraphs that could cover everything from the economy to circumcision having its influence on him, but he couldn't help but hope that their meeting wouldn’t be this short and trivial. “Um, you too?”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair and pushed his glasses up his face _again_ , like it was some kind of bad habit or nervous tick he had. “Y-yeah. It’s halfway from my apartment and my editor’s office. So. Um. What about you?”

“Um, it’s just across from the fire station. I’m there a lot. Because I’m a firefi-”

“Firefighter, yeah, I know,” Stiles finished for him with a grin. He stared at Derek a second too long before he turned a lethal shade of red, looking away sharply. “Because um, I think I’ve seen you out there sometimes, and um, one time there was a fire in my apartment, I think that was you-?”

Derek nodded dumbly, almost reddening. "I guess. Maybe? I don't really remember-"

"Me neither, it was out in like, two seconds," Stiles said quickly, leaning even closer over the counter to him.

That was the only indication Derek had that stiles wrote at all. For a while he was sure he was hallucinating that stiles was the guy from the picture. Even though the site had taken it down he had printed it out and kept it buried in a notebook under his mattress. Despite living alone he was terrified of Laura or someone finding it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, literally those are my only inspiration to write this thing


	7. woo another update also this thing is almost over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blatant stalling for the finish bleh. Completely ignoring that derek is a fireman yeah im done with that trope and I don’t know anything about firemen sorry

Getting to know Stiles is a stuttering, hectic experience.

It’s winter, so everyone is wrapped up in scarves and gloves and the flu. Stiles has a Harry Potter scarf from every house, and he wears a different one every day. Stiles spills coffee on the Hufflepuff one, and Derek tries to rinse the stain out in the backroom sink. Stiles leaves during when Lydia calls him, and Derek ends up keeping the scarf. Stiles never sees him wearing it, but he practically sleeps with it. He spends the first day of ‘borrowing’ the scarf by rubbing it on his face like a contented cat and _it’s not that weird, Laura, it’s soft, just feel how soft it is, no you can’t actually touch it_. Every day it smells less like Stiles and more like _Derek and Stiles_ , the thought of which has him smiling like a dumb idiot for a half hour. It smells like hazelnut and curry and anise and a million other wonderful things. He mopes for a few hours when the scarf starts smelling only like Derek and then strangely a bit of Boyd and Erica. He washes the scarf and returns it to Stiles, low-key looking for opportunities to steal another one.

Of course, it’s now that he’s met and gotten to know Stiles, the author version of Stiles starts emailing him back. It’s short and positive, a little too formal between them. Of course, Stiles doesn’t recognize Derek by his email address. In person they are just acquaintances, only vaguely friendly ones at that. Derek is just the guy who makes coffee, Stiles is only the guy who drinks it while they make faltering small talk.

He learns so much about Stiles form his emails. Stiles like Vonnegut and Scott Adams and essentially everything geeky. Stiles has a minor degree in research. That’s it, just research. Derek has tried asking for specifics, and apparently it’s just the science of research, and it’s a part of what librarians go to school for. He teaches poetry once a week for three hours (more often he only stays for two) at the community college, and Derek ponders attending a lecture for fun. Stiles tells him stories about his friend Scott and his girlfriend Allison, and how even they don’t know what he does for a living. He’s too scared to tell them. He’s too scared to tell anyone.

Stiles started writing erotica for himself. He later on started turning it in for a profit, and he’s used it to explore himself. Not only sexually (with all the kinks and fetishes he writes about in great depth), but emotionally as well. He wants to write more than erotica, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to write anything without at least one detailed sex scene in it. Derek (shamefully) tried to fish for what his next book was about, asking if there will be any fireman involved. Stiles replies a mysterious yes and no, and that he’s really not even allowed to tell his favorite fan that.

Stiles emails “his favorite fan” a few times, asking him to coffee, asking for

There’s just so much to Stiles, he can’t

He has a hard time separating what he’s learned about Stiles from emailing and what he’s learned about him in person. Email-Stiles talks about the books he’s read and his favorite authors, and the books he wants to write like. In person-Stiles makes awkward small talk and desperately flails whenever Derek tries to look over his shoulder or ask what he’s writing. He persists only because it’s almost like an inside joke between them. He doesn’t actually look when he pretends to tug Stiles’ laptop away. Their antics become a little too much when they break a mug and Laura revokes Derek’s carpet privileges. In revolt, he dragged his red chair over to the bar, and lets only Stiles sit in it, but Stiles doesn’t know that Derek plants his butt in it and growls at passersby when he isn’t there

He can hardly contain his affections for Stiles. He takes a page out of his book and starts writing them down, even though they sound too corny to exist in legible form.

 

Stiles likes strawberries, but not strawberry-flavored things. If Derek leaves the jar of apple butter and any spoon, fork, or knife near him for more than a minute unsupervised, it’s as good as gone. Derek does this a few times because he’s got a soft spot for Stiles and would gladly spoil him rotten. Laura always comes over and whisks the apple butter away, but not until it’s half empty.

But since then when he went to the coffeeshop, he found himself greeting Stiles casually, jokingly trying to read over Stiles' shoulder, to which Stiles would flail and insist that his work wasn't ready for public consumption.

“You’re like some kind of harsh metaphor,” Stiles mutters one day, chewing on the fringe of his Slytherin scarf, and Derek’s not sure if he said that to him or to himself. Derek’s not even sure what he means by that, or if any of those words were supposed to make sense to anybody.

“Stupid questions and shit cost a quarter, pay up,” Derek replies instead, pointing to the tip jar. Stiles doesn’t argue because those words are written on the chalkboard behind Derek, it’s on the menu next to dramatic accusations of overcharging and poetic outburts. Stiles goes back to tapping on this keyboard without actually typing anything. Derek can tell by the tone of the keys he taps by now.

"You'll let me read that eventually, right?" Derek asks Stiles with a smirk. Stiles sheepishly taps away at the keyboard with a shrug.

"Yeah. Bu-but not right now, okay? I'm redoing this entire part,” Stiles tells him quickly, hugging the screen closer, wary that Derek was going to try to look again.

“At least tell me what kind of book it is," Derek prods. He couldn't keep back his grin, teasing. He wasn’t expecting Stiles to take him seriously.

However, Stiles takes in a deep breath, finishes his coffee, and shrugs. “It’s a typical boy meets girl, girl meets boy, boy trips over himself to find out who she is, and girl finds it more adorable than she thinks she should kind of love story.”

Wow, it sounds like every Nicholas sparks movie/novel ever. Derek wouldn’t be lying if he had said he was really disappointed, but he’s sure he would love the characters nonetheless, if only because Stiles wrote them.

“Really?” he asks, trying to sound enthusiastic about it.

“Okay, no. Not really. It’s boy-meets-boy. Because there's not enough books like that out there-" he began to say quickly, but Derek shrugged.

"I think that's really cool."

Stiles’ eyes light up at that. He shrugged again, sheepishly.

“Could you tell me more about it?” Derek offers, and reaches out a little across the counter, close enough to almost touch Stiles’ hand. It’s a risk, and he’s putting himself on the line, but he assures himself it’s subtle. He’s less sure of himself when Stiles’ eyes not-so-subtly zero in on his hand and he’s ready to move it back to safe territory when Stiles’ hand made an aborted attempt to reach out to his. Then Stiles reddened a lot more than he was probably aware of, and shakes his head./ “no, I uh, I gotta go..

he leaves his laptop open on the counter. He’s gone for several minutes, and Derek doesn’t even bother to look at what’s on the screen. He falls back in one of the bar seats and rakes a hand through his hair. So close. He swore internally and tries not to tear his hair out. So fucking close. If only he could gather the nerve to make an inch more of a move, he might be able to know if they actually had a chance for anything.

A few moments later, Stiles barges back into the shop, slams his laptop down on the counter and starts talking fast as if he needs to say it before he loses the courage to.

"Okaysoyouwantedtoknowwhatitwasaboutandyoukeptaskingsohereitis-" he pauses to sit down and take a breath, starting slower as he stares into Derek’s eyes, glancing away less and less with every sentence, slowly becoming absorbed in gazing at Derek’s eyes. . "Um, they meet in a bookstore. And one of them's completely oblivious and the other's trying to get the oblivious guy's attention because he thinks he's beautiful, but it doesn't really work out so well at first. They start off on the wrong foot and but then they get past that and pretend none of that ever happened. And they get stuck in this rut of pretending it’s not awkward, but then one day, he says…” Stiles’s words wander off into nothing as he stares a little too deeply into Derek’s eyes. He’s leaning precariously across the counter, a little too close for comfort.

They’re close enough to kiss, and fuck there are butterflies spawning in his stomach and vertigo trying to tip him forward as Stiles’ eyes darted down to his mouth and he licks his lips. He can physically feel the butterflies in his stomach beating this stupid little wings all in the same direction, trying to push him in a little further and fuck there’s gotta be some medication for that.  

"Hi?” Derek prods gently, because he knows if they stare at each other any longer he’s going to do something stupid and kiss Stiles and ruin the entire everything ever.

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly. “I like that. That’s good.”

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says. He bats his eyelashes like some goddamn cliché in a bad movie, hoping desperately that Stiles will take the hint of whatever he’s possibly suggesting. “Hi.”

“Hi, Derek,” Stiles replies, and his eyes lose focus, and Derek hopes it’s because he’s staring at his mouth just as much as Derek’s staring at his.

Stiles just sort of stares at him for a moment he even leans in a little, and Derek wants to more forward because they’re finally going to kiss and break this awful stalemate but just as Derek purses his lips the tiniest bit Stiles turned away quickly to type furiously, muttering, "Yeah, that'd probably work better than what I already have.”

He leaves, and if Derek bites the ear on that wolf stuffed animal off, well, there were no witnesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally comments are the only inspirations to continue writing this


	8. psych im still updating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter is super short but there's maybe two more chapters after this??? idk plot thickens blah

Stiles left the shop, and Derek feels confused in ways he doesn’t like. However, the night after he tore apart that wolf stuffed animal, and went to the mini-mart and the local toy shop looking for a replacement before Laura notices.

Somewhere along the line he and Stiles’ author persona had stopped emailing and started IM-ing, and that fateful night, Derek hates that he’s gotten into this mess more than ever. It all starts when he messages author-Stiles after work.  It’s dumb, but he’s still mulling over that afternoon’s conversation, and something is nagging at him that thinks Stiles might have been suggesting something he’s really hoping he was suggesting.

So he prods.

_so i hear you're switching genres, from erotica to romance._

_who told you that_

_uh, rumor. you're not?_

_no, i just tell my family and acquaintances i write romance novels. it's kinda awkward to tell your dad "i write porn for a living"_

_it could be worse. imagine if you had to say "hey dad i act in porn for a living."_

_fat chance. you have to be attractive to do that._

Those words gut a hole in Derek, that momentary flash of low-self esteem makes him want to hug Stiles and assure him he’s just lovely. He wants to hold him and count each of his moles with a kiss and tell him about that little upturn of his nose that is fiendishly mischievous and that paired with that glint in his eyes makes him look irresistible, that whenever he smiles up at Derek he has the overwhelming urge to kiss him, but he’s been redirecting those kisses to the stuffed animal wolf Laura keeps on the counter. At this point Stiles probably thinks he’s got some stuffed animal fetish, and honestly, if stuffed animal fetishes appear in his next book, Derek will probably develop one.  Derek wants desperately to write back a page of prose dedicated solely to Stiles’ moles, his eyes, and that little upturn of his nose, but he can’t. The site’s picture is gone, there’s no way he’d be able to pretend to know what Stiles looks like without it being suspicious. So he makes a quick mention that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself, everyone think themselves ugly, yadda yadda yah.

_but have you ever wanted to switch genres? i can;t imagine much literary fame comes from erotica._

_hey i’ll have you know i won a prize for writing porn. And who knows, maybe murder mysteries. but i always wanted to write books like chuck shurley._

_if I wanted to read chuck shurley i’d find a different bookstore_ , he starts to type, when Stiles suddenly messages him.

_maybe we could meet for coffee. and maybe after that, if things go well, we could do something on friday._

Fucking Valentines Day?

And don’t go thinking this is going to be some fan meeting. I’d like to talk about something other than my books

Derek suggests very quickly Laura’s coffee shop for no reason other than that he’s an idiot and then he leaves to go bury himself at sea.

No, unfortunately, there was no nautical funeral, but rather a fire on Main Street that Boyd, Erica, and Isaac corral him into the firetruck, over-enthusiastically hooting and honking the horn as Derek tries not to despair as they make their way to go put out a kitchen fire. He makes Isaac sit in the back because he’s the asshole who got him into this whole mess to begin with.


	9. THE DATE

Stiles paces back and forth for minutes after he reads his reply. It’s a time and place.

He hears sirens and a firetruck wizzes by out on the street, horn blaring a little too enthusiastically but he pays it no mind.

What about Derek.

Goddamit. He just wanted to meet this guy whose personality he was completely falling in love with, and who knows, maybe if this guy was at least mildly attractive he would be able to get over Derek, who was so painfully out of his league. The half-invitation for Valentine’s Day was sort of a ploy to get out of Laura’s planned book signing early, maybe even completely. Dh26@aol,com, (who fucking even uses aol anymore?) was really the only fan he wanted to spend time with, even if the guy probably only wanted to know what the next book was about.

But then that wasn’t fair to dh26@aol,com, who had been so perfect and sweet in his emails, to be used as methods of getting untangled from people. Of course, he sighed to himself, dh26@aol,com was probably just an avid fan. He couldn’t go around falling in love with everyone who enjoyed his books, he thought he had learned that with Lydia.

But at the Hale and Hearty? That was so close by, this guy must have lived in Beacon Hills. He had no idea this guy was local, that must have meant he could have met this guy without even knowing it was him. Fuck, what if it was Jackson? He felt mildly nauseous at the thought, before brushing it off. Jackson could never have been as nice as dh26@aol,com was.

Fuck it. He wants to meet this guy. He wants to stop pining for Derek. He wants not to think about how he’ll never get to do stupid datey things with Derek like hold hands and share scarves and curl up with a book and hot chocolate.

The day the set arrives too quickly and not quick enough and he paces outside for a good ten minutes, trying to peek inside and get a look at this guy. The shop is pretty much deserted. He sees the shape of an attractive guy through the blurry glass and there’s a jolt in his stomach as he suddenly hopes that this could be a lot easier than he thought it would have been and then he’s fumbling to make his hair not do that weird thing, straightening his shirt and fidgeting with the ends of his scarf.  He takes a deep breath, and opens the door to the shop.

It’s just Derek in his usual spot. He looks up at Stiles and makes his usual I’m-too-cool-for-you half wave before he returns to his book.

Fuck. Derek’s here. Even though he figured he had probably been imagining it, that Derek might have liked him even a little, this was going to be so much harder to do with Derek watching. Or not really watching. Just being in the nearby vicinity and Stiles being overly aware of his presence.

What if Derek did like him? Even that tiny bit? What if it hurt

What if Stiles was wasting his time with dh26@aol,com when he could have been pursuing the speck of affection Derek may or may have not been harboring for him?

Sighing, he went and sat down in his usual spot not too far from Derek.

He checked his watch. Stiles had been ten minutes late, but dh26@aol,com was even later than him.

He waited in silence.

\- - - - - - - - -

He doesn’t set Stiles’ usual hot chocolate out because he doesn’t want to come off as creepy as he feels like he’s being. Also, Stiles is ten minutes late, and it would have gotten cold anyway.

He catches sight of Stiles pacing outside, and suddenly Derek wonders if he hasn’t been nervous enough. He set it up in a familiar place he knew Stiles couldn’t possibly get lost looking for. The shop is also fairly desolate at the time, it’s perfect, but at the same time suddenly it’s the worst idea he’s ever had. Ever leaving the house is the worst idea he’s ever had. He should have just stayed home his entire life. This is so stalker-y. Why didn’t he just walk up to him and ask _‘does this smell like chloroform to you?’_

He takes out his phone and for a solid twenty minutes he rereads their messages. Stiles was a part of this conversation, this exchange, this interest had to be shared. It was Stiles who suggested they meet for coffee. Stiles wanted to meet him, he assures himself.

“Hey, um, Stiles, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he starts casually, cutting to the chase. He’s gonna be straightforward. No more hiding.

“Can it wait?”

Derek looks away, and doesn’t answer. He goes back to staring at his coffee, and doesn’t look up for maybe another ten once he spots Laura in the corner of the shop pretending to push their heads together with her fingers.

When he looks up again, Stiles looks visibly irritated.

It’s about an hour and a half after they said they would meet. It’s getting dark outside, and Derek’s on his third cup of coffee. Stiles never ordered anything to drink. He’s about to open his mouth again when Stiles gets up and goes over to Laura.

“Guess I’ve got time for the book signing after all,” Derek hears him say, as he starts helping her set up, tacking heart decorations to the wall a little too aggressively.

“I’ve got book posters too,” she says. “But I’ll leave them down until tomorrow.”

They continue in silence. Derek waits for her to leave or Stiles to come back over, but it’s slowly sinking in his stomach that he’s not going to get the chance to tell him. It’s a weird kind of panic that settles over his shoulders, silently freaking out in the empty shop with only the rustling of streamers for company.

Eventually they’ve got the obnoxious pink and red streamers and tables set up, Laura calls it a night and tells Stiles to go home as she sets out the last of about only a hundred tea lights on the bookshelves and tables.

Stiles gathers up his scarf and jacket from the chair near Derek. “This is my Valentine’s plans. Signing books for a bunch of other people who also don’t have something better to do,” he says somewhat bitterly.

“I believe you mean someone better to do,” Laura calls out before she heads to the backroom. Neither of them laugh genuinely.

The need to tell him quickly bubbles up in his throat, he can feel the words lining up on his tongue.

_Stiles, I’m a big fan of yours._

_Stiles, I’ve read all your books._

_Stiles, it was me that you set up to meet._

“If it makes you feel any better, my plans are putting out home fires. Unbelievable amount of people that light candles thinking its romantic on Valentine’s,” Derek offers weakly. It’s the first full thought he’s said to Stiles in the whole three hours he’s been there. But it’s not the right words. It’s not any of them.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Huh.”

His phone buzzes, and there’s a message for him. There’s a message for the idiot who stood Stiles up.

_I thought you would be different._

 It fucking breaks his heart to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha angst.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS ONE MORE CHAPTER IT WILL BE FINISHED SHORTLY DONT GO AWAY

Valentine’s Day has been surprisingly quiet. There hasn’t been a single call to the fire station, but it’s only the afternoon. Come evening, they’ll be swamped with calls.  He drops his books off in the backroom of the store, using the backdoor so no one runs into him. He doesn’t want to think about Stiles or anything romantic. It’s been a while since he let himself fall this deep in love. And just like the last time, it sucks. The only difference is, last time there was a fire.

He shoves his box of books under a shelf, out of sight. He’s done with love. It starts out as butterflies, and ends each time with a whole new level of awful.

The cherry on top, he bumps into Laura just as he’s leaving, and she’s got that look.

“Derek,” she says, her tone not unfriendly, but he still doesn’t want to hear what she has to say.

“Don’t tell Stiles I was here,” is the first thing out of his mouth, and he hates it. He turns to leave.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and she digs her fingernails in a little as she pulls him back over. “No, you stay right there and tell me what happened. How did you two get to be on the world’s worst date?”

He’s silent and moody for a few moments, all crossed arms and furrowed brows. She glares at him with a frown like she’s about to bear her teeth and growl if he doesn’t listen to his big sister. Man, she really needs to put down those Game of Thrones books, Derek thinks offhandedly. After a few more beats of silence, he gives up, and drops his hands to his sides, hanging his head.

“I... I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t risk the possibility that he might not like me.”

It’s the truth. It’s the dumb, stupidly simple truth. It doesn’t feel like enough of a reason, it feels like a lousy excuse when he admits it. At the time it was enough to paralyze him for hours, but now it doesn’t feel like reason enough, and it’s evident Laura thinks so too when she makes a noise of disappointment.

“You always do this! Get all infatuated and then get too scared to tell them, not everyone is going to hurt you Derek!”

“It’s going to hurt when he says no, and I can’t go through that again,” he says, and it actually hurts to say it out loud. He tries to get around her to leave. His break is nearly over and he needs to get back to the firehouse.  

“It’s so obvious he likes you, why would he say no?” she counters, slamming her hand against the wall to block his path. He huffs and ducks around her.

“Because this isn’t some romance novel! It’s not cut and dry, I don’t know for sure he’s would say yes!” He says too loud, he nearly shouts.  “Real life romance isn’t just some guilty pleasure, it’s difficult and stupid and terrifying.”

“So what, you’re just going to leave another almost started relationship? Just like that? You aren’t even going to try?”

“I have been trying, but you know, there’s no relationship to leave if there’s nothing there. Besides, he doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Stiles isn’t like that. He’s not playing with your emotions.”

“How would you know that? Have you talked to him? Has he told you?” he snaps, his hand on the door handle.

“Hey Laura, you’re needed up front,” interrupts the familiar voice. His heart drops into his stomach and his stomach drops out of existence when he turns and sees Stiles. Laura startles too, her head snapping around to look at him. The three of them stand in silence for a moment, before she awkwardly slips around Stiles and leaves the two in the backroom.

Stiles looks at him and just sighs like he knows Derek’s too much of a coward to admit his feelings in person. Derek looks at the ground in shame, kicking his box of books behind a shelf.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

They don’t say anything for a moment, awkwardly sharing the dim space of the backroom.

“I’m, uh, looking for more tape. We’re hanging posters,” Stiles says after a moment.

“Should be by her desk,” he says, and that’s the last thing he says to Stiles when he leaves.

He stays on alert, but he’s numb. He puts out a few fires, but he doesn’t really register the faces he sees when he lectures them on candle safety in the bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and even walk in closets.

Erica leans in to make a joke, he fakes a laugh though he heard little more than her tone, when the receiver beeps again, calling, “Unit 423 BPFD, fire on 46 South street, at the Hale and Hearty-”

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM UPDATING THIS IN AN HOUR MAYBE TWO SO HANG ON


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if it gets across, but the fire isn't that bad, but due to Derek's past experiences, it looks worse to him than it actually is

He’s not entirely sure how bad the fire is. He just knows for sure his sister is in there. It doesn’t look much like the Hale and Hearty, it looks like _the_ fire. He doesn’t remember the ride over, just that Erica, Boyd, and Isaac turned to him with a look of horror that surely matched his own, one thought in their mind:

“I don’t see Laura outside, Boyd was saying, scanning the crowded street as the truck pulls up. The truck isn’t even parked when he steps off, throwing his helmet on and grabbing a fire ax. Some people were watching in terror as they stood on the sidewalks, a few brave soul were helping. Some stepped out of his way and some he had to shove aside.

Inside, it was burning. It felt like all the fires do. The walls are only just starting to catch, thankfully. There are a few people inside, blocked by overturned table. Nearly every wolf figurine with fuzz on it is burning. He kicks the table aside, and the people rush past him back to the exit. Laura was nowhere insight, and he ran to the backroom to see if she was there. Nowhere.

“Hey! You-!” he barely hears over the crackling flames and when he turns, his heart stops. Stiles was there, he had forgotten all about him being there. He’s curled up by the fireplace, his path blocked by the burning carpet.

 _Shit_.

He’s over the counter in a second, but the smoke is building in the room and he sees Stiles buckle to his knees. He scoops him up, limp and heavy in the heat. The door is all that matters, Stiles, is all that matters.

The minute they’re outside and breathing air instead of smoke, he falls to the ground with Stiles in his arms, and he can hear Stiles gasping and coughing for breath. His breathing evens out a little, and Derek touches his face like he’s fragile and. What if he lost him and he never told him?

Stiles manages to look at him, and he reaches up slowly, to push Derek’s helmet off. It clatters to the ground and rolls away, but he doesn’t care. He’s holding Stiles, alive and close. It doesn’t matter if Stiles understands the feelings swelling in Derek’s chest, in this moment nothing matters.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Stiles says to him once he’s able, shaky with a scrape on his cheek, and under the smoke and ash he smells vaguely like that whiskey Laura keeps under the counter for making the coffee Irish.

Suddenly the moment’s over. He glances back to the shop, Erica and Boyd are extinguishing the last of the fire. The EMT’s are showing up, and the most injured people are being ushered over to them.

“Hold that thought,” he says. He does not have time for this. He wants time for this, he wants to hold Stiles close and take care of him, but he needs to know Laura’s alright. She’s all he has left.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back. I need to—“

“Go, go find Laura,” Stiles says quickly, and Derek melts a little that he understands.

He doesn’t need to search long because he hears her shouting at poor, wonderful, Isaac. He sees her and she’s a little charred and scraped. He finds her and throws his arms around her. He hugs her so tight that afterwards she grabs the oxygen mask, and breaths a little before she talks.

“Hey, I’m alright,” she says, pushing him away. “Look, I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”

“What took you so long to get out?” He asked, trying to corral her back into his arms again as she pushed him away, rolling her eyes.

“Derek it wasn’t that long. I just wanted to grab your stash, and then I had to go out the back. I was gonna get them signed for you when somebody knocked a tea light into the Irish coffee next to the stack of books we were promoting--“

“Your whole shop is a fire hazard, you’re never setting foot in there again,” he mutters mostly to himself because he knows she’ll protest, when what she said registers with him. “Wait. Stash?”

“Those books you keep hidden under the shelves in the back. Yeah, little brother, I know you’re reading porn at work,” she says before she launches into a lecture about his work ethic.

That’s when he notices the stack of books in a cardboard box. His books. The ones written by Stiles.

He glances over at Stiles, catches him staring back at him through the crowd. Stiles looks away, and pretends suddenly to be very interested in the ground.

He bites his lip, and picks up the box.

“Um, one second. There’s something I have to do,” he says to Laura, and she shoos him away in favor of telling Isaac not to douse more than he has to with the hose.

Stiles sees him heading over to him, and waves him over. Stiles is sitting on the curb, a pile of the books they had managed to salvage. He feels a little sorry, looking at them. Brand new from the box it looked, ready to be sold, now charred and wet. He can hardly make out which ones they are from the distorted covers, and Stiles seems pleased to some degree at that.

“Seems there’s nothing left from the signing. Y’know, I’m thinking it could be a sign to completely start over and start a different genre—“

At that Derek’s heart has a conniption and he unceremoniously dumps the box in Stiles’ lap.

Stiles casts him a curious look, and then opening it, turns a deep shade of red when he sees the pile of dog-eared erotica.

“T-these are my books?” He squeaks, the realization dawning on him. Stiles looked up at Derek and balked, the blood draining from his face. “Oh. Um. Right. These. Look, uh, Derek, I can explain--”

Derek glimpses Laura across the way, miming something about a frowny face and eyebrows and pointing at him, and another bubble of nerves bursts over his heart as he realizes he must look rather scary instead of emotionly constipated. Not that he was trying to look either.

“I’m your biggest fan,” Derek blurts out, and Stiles falls silent. Derek shoves his hands in his pockets, and tries not to meet his eyes. He can do this if he looks at him. “If you’re still up for signing, I’d, uh, I’d like you to sign these. And if you could make it out to dh26@aol,com, that’d be great,” he winces as he says it, and after a moment of silence, he opens his eyes to look for Stiles' reaction. 

Stiles isn’t talking, and Derek doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Derek can’t seem to stop himself from too

“Look, can we start over? I was so worried about making our real first meeting perfect, and then I couldn’t do it and I fucked everything up and I ruined what we had. I wanted so bad to ask you out but I couldn’t I was so scared of the rejection,”

Somewhere in what he was saying, Stiles starts rooting through his books. He’s going to know Derek’s got every single book he’s written. He doesn’t speak for several more moments, then he frowns, holding up one of the books. “Wait, this one isn’t even one of mine.”

“No, but one of the characters is a lot like you.”

At that, Stiles surges forward and kisses him, and Derek wholeheartedly lets him. Stiles tastes like whiskey and chocolate and coffee.

At first it’s desperate and needy to cover weeks of pining, but it dissolves into a slow, careful, gentle caress. It’s soft and sensual, with no pattern but the pull and slight retreat, the back and forth that rolled between of their mouths against each other. He could feel Stiles’ mouth move against his own, tugging on his lower lip and inviting Derek into his mouth. He smiled through the kiss, smiled and their eyes met, they laughed quietly, the kiss, their private clumsiness, a secret joke between them. They’re both brimming with a newfound, hesitant affection for each other, the boundary crossed. There was no going back.

“Oh my god you were holding out on me,” Stiles murmurs into his neck, “For three fucking weeks, we could have been doing _so many_ nasty things--”

“Not everyth--” is all Derek manages to get out when Stiles kisses him again, “Sti-, Stiles--”

Stiles kisses him, hard and fast, he’s practically gnawing on Derek’s lower lip, and like he’s never letting go and Derek would be fine with that but he needs to breathe and oh god Stiles was just in a fire and he probably needs medical attention.

“ _Stiles_ \--”

“Mmhmm?”

“We can’t do this right now, you probably need oxygen and an EMT and a shock blanket,” he says, and he’s hoping Stiles has the sense to listen because he doesn’t have the heart to push him away right now.

“Mmm are you an EMT as well as a fireman? That’s going in the next book,” is all he gets out of Stiles between kisses and Derek panics mildly that Stiles breathed in too much CO2 in which case would have completely invalidated that kiss and wait, suddenly Derek wants to read that theoretical book he’s talking about. “Oh my god that, would be hot but no you need to sit over there and wear the shock blanket.”

Stiles makes a noise of displeasure, but takes a step back from him.

 “And nothing but the shock blanket, you got it,” Stiles says and wobbles back towards the flashing lights.

“What? No, not that at all,” Derek says, and it’s starting to dawn on him that confessing to Stiles was going to be half the stress, and he was about to be in for so much more.

“Nothing at all, you got it,”

“Stiles-“ Derek grabs Stiles’ hand and holds onto him. He’s not letting go.

He looks over at the others. He feels a weight coming off his chest. The shop’s still smoking, Boyd and Erica look like they’re having a little too much fun with the fire extinguishers, and Isaac has the audacity to ask Laura in the background, “This means we get free coffee now, right?” But somehow all of it feels just right.

There’s another siren, a police cruiser pulling up, right on time to sweep the scene and find the fire’s origin. Stiles drops the shock blanket without hesitation, and begins tossing the burned erotica back into the shop.

“Stiles, stop! They might catch-”

  “YEAH YOU KNOW FIRE IS CLEANSING LET’S JUST BURN THIS FILTH,” he yells over his shoulder, and then he hisses to Derek “Give me yours too, I’ll get you newer copies I swear.”

Derek rolls his eyes and grabs the box back from him. “Stiles, no.”

Stiles has a panicked look about him he hasn’t seen since they first met.

The Sherriff finds them wrestling over a box of erotica, and when Stiles yelps “Dad!” at the man, Derek drops the box immediately and closes it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok its done tell me what you think


End file.
